


Tumblr shorts - Stucky

by galwednesday



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes is a menace, Bucky Barnes' murder strut, Epistolary, Fluff, M/M, Natasha is a master of manipulating toxic masculinity to achieve her own goals, Nightlights, OC - exasperated bureaucrat, STEVE ROGERS' ASS, The CA:CW Bucky/plums fix-it the people deserve, all's fair in love and jam, boys there are easier ways to make jam, magical healing pastels, national historic landmarks, please don't go back into cryo, sociopathic circus peanut, sublimating feelings into interior decorating, that can't possibly be sanitary, the tags keep all-CAPSing STEVE ROGERS' ASS and I'm just going to take it as enthusiastic agreement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7369123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galwednesday/pseuds/galwednesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets from <a href="https://galwednesday.tumblr.com">my Tumblr</a>. Will update sporadically, but I don't have a schedule for these, so it depends on <strike>how desperate I am to procrastinate on longer WIPs</strike> how often I write quick, short stuff.</p><p>Ch. 1, Bucky's Jam: Steve/Bucky/plums OT3, or: how Stucky gets even stickier.</p><p>Ch. 2, Walk Softly (and Carry a Big Schtick): Bucky offsets the intimidation factor of his murder strut with strategic wardrobe updates.</p><p>Ch. 3, Wanna Thank Your Country for a Butt Like That: the response to Bucky Barnes' application to have Steve Rogers' Ass declared a National Historic Landmark.</p><p>Ch. 4, Retail Therapy: the Asset comes in from the cold. Steve goes on the most righteously determined Bed Bath & Beyond shopping trip in history.</p><p>Ch. 5, So What'd I Miss?: Bucky comes out of cryo and gets some unwelcome news.</p><p>Ch. 6, You've Got Mail: Modern Shrinkyclinks AU with Clint as a mail-swapping matchmaker.</p><p>Ch. 7, The Captain's Name: soulmates AU.</p><p>Ch. 8, Romanian Club: high school AU with popular Steve, nerd Bucky.</p><p>Ch. 9, The Captain's Name part 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky's Jam

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky and Steve make jam; Tony helps with the clean-up. Happy birthday, Steve! 
> 
> Set post-CA:CW where nobody is fighting anymore, rated Teen for swearing. Original Tumblr post [here](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/146779303913/buckys-jam).

“What _is_ this?” Tony swung a jeweler’s magnifying glass over for a closer look at the plates on Barnes’ arm. His brand new, custom-made, extremely-expensive-in-both-material-cost-and-hours-of-Tony’s-time arm. “Some kind of adhesive?”

Barnes grunted something. Steve could always understand what he was saying, and Natasha at least _pretended_  she always knew what he was saying, but everyone else had learned to rely on translators. Tony looked up at Steve expectantly.

“It’s, uh, plum jam. Sort of.”

“Sort of,” Tony repeated. Steve was turning bright red.

“Well, we had some plums. And they got kinda. Smashed.”

“In Barnes’ arm?”

Barnes muttered something that Tony was 83% confident was “among other places.”

Tony paused and put down the small dentist’s pick he had been using to scrape dried plum goo off of the delicate plates of Barnes’ wrist. “Is this a sex thing?”

“No!” Steve said. His blush, amazingly, got even darker.

“Yes,” Barnes said.

“Right,” Tony said. He got up, opened a drawer in his work bench, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “Right.” He picked up the dental pick again and scraped a bit of dried peel out from behind Barnes’ thumb.

“That’s not necessary,” Steve mumbled. “It really is just plums.”

“Listen, Rogers, you were the one who made ground rules for discussing your personal life and the ways in which it does or does not pertain to the good Sergeant, and those ground rules forbid me from asking questions about the specifics of your sex life. So.” Tony held up his gloved hands, now stained purple at the fingertips. “Here I am, wearing appropriate medical protection, and not asking questions.”

Barnes smirked at him. Steve looked like he wanted to sink right through the floor and build a new life under the sewers.

“No, it wasn’t–we went to the farmer’s market, and there was a bushel of plums, and Bucky was complaining about how he didn’t get to eat the last plums he bought, so we got the bushel, and then we were going to make jam, and instead of slicing the fruit we thought we could, uh, skip a step.”

Tony tipped his head back and considered Steve, who had said all of that in a single breath. “How much did the serum enhance your lung capacity?”

“A whole lot,” Barnes said. Apparently he was perfectly capable of enunciating when it would embarrass Steve. “It’s real handy.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve hissed.

“Not asking,” Tony repeated. “I just want it on record that I am following all the established ground rules and behaving completely appropriately during this interaction, and nobody is allowed to yell at me for Steve’s incipient coronary. JARVIS, do you have it on record?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Tony ran a cotton swab soaked in a cleaning enzyme over Barnes’ knuckles. There was dried fruit residue in every crevice.

“We were just crushing fruit,” Steve moaned, hands over his face. “That’s all.”

“Just going to point out, Cap, that your chest is covered in purple. Not a question, just an observation.”

Steve looked down at his ridiculously tight white t-shirt with deep betrayal. The purple stains on his chest were clearly visible through the sheer fabric.

Barnes sighed and then recited, like a kid called to the principal’s office, “I started squishing the fruit with my hand, Steve said stop acting like a barbarian and use a paring knife, I told him to squeeze some in between his pecs because I thought it would be funny, Steve said no, I dared him to do it, Steve said yes, we had a contest to see who could squeeze the most, which I absolutely won, Steve, don’t you give me that face, I did 24 and you only did 19–”

“Because you _stole mine_ right off my chest! With your _teeth_ , which was _cheating_.”

“We never said stealing wasn’t allowed! All’s fair in love and jam, Rogers–”

“You are such a little shit–”

“And then we made out instead of cleaning up, and the fucking fruit dried all over my fucking hand and stuck like fucking cement, so here we are,” Barnes finished.

Tony considered this. “Fair.”

“So now that you know the whole story, will you stop dicking around and clean this shit off?”

“Sure,” Tony said easily. He handed Barnes the bottle of cleaning solution. “Soak it in this for twenty minutes, rinse with hot water, it’ll come right off.”

“Tony,” Steve said reproachfully. “You could have done that right at the start.”

“I wanted to know how Barnes turned his arm into the world’s deadliest strip of fruit leather.” Tony tucked the dental pick behind his ear and gave Steve his most innocent look. “And you did say I couldn’t ask.”


	2. Walk Softly (and Carry a Big Schtick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post [here](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/147097464308/walk-softly-and-carry-a-big-schtick). Rated teen for swearing.

Bucky stormed onto the Tower’s common floor, dropping his shopping bags in a heap by the door. Clint and Natasha didn’t look up from their game of Wii golf. Everyone in the Tower was used to grumpy supersoldiers by now.

“How was shopping?” Natasha asked, sinking a putt.

“Terrible.” Bucky flung himself into a chair. “Why does everyone keep runnin’ away from me?”

Clint made a tentative swinging motion. His player overbalanced, fell over, and hit himself in the shin with his own club. “Seriously? That reaction surprises you?”

“I took a shower. I shaved. I’m wearing stupid future clothes. I hid my fucking robot arm.” Bucky glared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. He didn’t see what was so alarming. “So why did the sales guy run into the back room when I tried to ask him where the fucking socks were?”

Natasha and Clint had a brief argument conducted entirely through facial twitches. Clint lost.

“It’s your walk, dude. Well, that and your resting murder face, but this is New York, everyone looks like that. So it’s mostly your walk.”

Bucky looked down at his feet. They had no answers for him. “What about my walk?”

“That whole I-am-a-tank murder strut thing you have going on? It makes civilians shit their pants. Of course they’re going to get out of your way.”

“I do not _murder strut_.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I fuckin’ do not!”

“You absolutely do!”

“JARVIS?” Natasha broke in. “Please play surveillance footage of James walking.”

JARVIS projected a clip of Bucky walking through the lobby onto the far wall. Bucky watched, brow furrowed, as the crowd in the lobby parted ahead of him like Bucky was surrounded by an invisible force field. One guy in a suit actually backed into a wall to make sure he stayed out of arm’s reach.

“That’s a perfectly normal walk.”

“You walk like a panther.” Clint flopped over the back of the couch, watching the footage play upside-down. “A hungry panther. A hungry, pissed-off panther.”

JARVIS, who was, much like his creator, a cheeky little shit, added a clip of a panther strolling through the jungle as a side-by-side comparison.

“See?” Clint said triumphantly. “Look at how you roll your shoulders. And how slow your steps are. You’re not walking, you’re stalking.”

“Am not,” Bucky muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“If you want civilians to feel comfortable with you, you’re going to have to make yourself less intimidating.” Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, considering. “Which is going to take some work.”

Bucky was probably going to regret this.

He asked anyway. “Got any ideas?”

Natasha gave him her sweetest smile. “I have a few.” 

 

Steve was deep in concentration, sketching the plants on their balcony and trying to shade the afternoon light just right, when he heard Bucky slam the front door on his way in. It was one of their many concessions to mutual paranoia that they both made a lot of noise entering their apartment, just to make it very clear that nobody was sneaking around.

Steve set his charcoal aside and walked into the kitchen, squinting down at his drawing, still lost in thought. When he caught sight of Bucky he nearly dropped his sketchbook. “Bucky?”

“Steve!” Bucky said excitedly. He set three bags of groceries on the counter and started lifting out cartons of milk and eggs. “I got jostled today!”

“You did?” Steve wasn’t really paying attention to what Bucky was saying; he was too distracted by what Bucky was wearing. Purple polish glittered on the nails of Bucky’s right hand, and his long hair was tucked into a neat bun held up by a rainbow scrunchie. Steve wanted to bury his face in Bucky’s baby blue microfleece sweater. (To be fair, that was his normal reaction to seeing Bucky’s chest, but that sweater did look really soft.)

“I did,” Bucky said. He sounded proud. “Twice. _And_ someone cut in front of me in line at the grocery store.”

“That’s great.” Steve said vaguely, before his brain caught up with his ears. “You did?” he said, in an entirely different voice. “That’s great!”

“Yeah!” Bucky beamed at him and handed him an apple. Steve started polishing it on his shirt. “Natasha says if I can find a pink hoodie that fits my shoulders, it’ll cut the space people give me in half, thanks to toxic masculinity bullshit.”

Steve was getting a little choked up. He knew Bucky hated being seen as a weapon, and this fuzzy, pastel version of Bucky was the happiest Steve had seen him in weeks. “I’m real proud of you, Buck. You, uh. You look good.”

Bucky assumed an innocent expression that instantly made Steve suspicious. “You haven’t seen the best part yet.”

He spun around, and Steve choked on a bite of apple. Bucky’s silky gray yoga pants had “JUICY” spelled out in rhinestones right across his ass.

“What do you think?” Bucky cast Steve a look over his shoulder. “Is it accurate?”

 

Two hours later, Natasha’s phone pinged with new texts from Bucky.

_thanks for the clothes  
they worked out great_

**Told you**

_also I need five more pairs of juicy pants  
I’m gonna wear them every day_

Natasha snorted at her phone. Did Barnes think she was an amateur?

**Check your closet**

_!!! thank u  
omg are these big ones in Steve’s size_

**Of course**

_THANK YOUUUUUU_

**If you really want to thank me you’ll send pics ;)**

And that was how Natasha got a picture of two truly spectacular JUICY-spangled asses to use as her phone’s wallpaper.


	3. Wanna Thank Your Country for a Butt Like That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Tumblr post [here](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/147160013743/wanna-thank-your-country-for-a-butt-like-that). Rated G, probably? No swearing except repeated mentions of Steve Rogers' Ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From [this Stucky Library prompt](http://thestuckylibrary.tumblr.com/post/147116755327/are-there-any-fics-where-bucky-campaigns-to-have): 
> 
>  
> 
> _are there any fics where bucky campaigns to have steve's ass declared as a registered national monument, because there should be_
> 
>  
> 
> The prompt was for “national monument” status, which takes an act of Congress or a proclamation from the President, but I wanted to write more of an exasperated-but-competent mid-level bureaucrat’s take on this than a full-blown political campaign, so I changed it to a petition for the more approachable “national historic landmark” status.

Dear Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,

I am writing in regards to Application NHL-87339, “Petition to Formally Recognize Steve Rogers’ Ass,” which you submitted on November 17th of 2015.

Unfortunately, the National Park System Advisory Board National Historic Landmarks Committee (referred to hereafter as the Landmarks Committee) must decline your application to certify Steve Rogers’ Ass as a National Historic Landmark (NHL). We know this will disappoint the many, many devoted fans who participated in the Wanna Thank Your Country For A Butt Like That (WTYCFABLT) Campaign by emailing, writing, calling, sending packages to, and/or physically intimidating members of the Landmarks Committee, but our decision was unavoidable, given that Steve Rogers’ Ass does not meet basic NHL guidelines.

In your application, you argued that Captain Rogers meets two key NHL requirements: 1., to “tell important stories relevant to the history of the nation overall” (our committee members found the appendix of transcribed “Steve Rogers’ collected rants about History Channel WWII documentaries” both entertaining and informative); and 2., to “possess a high level of historic integrity” (it is not our committee members’ place to determine whether Captain Rogers does, in fact, “have more integrity in his little pinky than any other guy in Washington has in his whole body,” but we found no substantive evidence to contradict this assertion).

While these conditions are indeed met by Captain Rogers, it is this committee’s policy not to certify living people as historical relics. Your argument that Steve Rogers’ Ass is not, in and of itself, a living person and should therefore be considered exempt from this policy was compelling, but ultimately unpersuasive. You wrote very movingly about Steve Rogers’ Ass serving as an inspiration to the troops he commanded and a beacon of hope for all of America, and we do not mean to deny or diminish the impact Captain Rogers (and, by extension, Steve Rogers’ Ass) has had on this nation’s history, but we believe NHL status is not the appropriate channel to commemorate that impact.

The Landmarks Committee has agreed, however, on a compromise which we (dearly) hope will be agreeable to you and the rest of the WTYCFABLT Campaign. As I am sure you are aware, a 13-foot bronze statue of Captain America is scheduled to be erected in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park later this year. Prospect Park, as it so happens, is already listed on the National Register of Historic Places (NRHP). As the statue will include a faithful representation of Steve Rogers’ posterior, this recognition will extend, in a symbolic way, to Steve Rogers’ Ass. We will update Prospect Park’s NRHP listing as soon as the statue has been commemorated to note the statue’s additional historical contribution.

I must also respectfully decline to accept the proceeds from the WTYCFABLT GoFundMe campaign, as it clearly states on the donation page summary that the purpose is “to bribe the [obscenity redacted] out of the landmarks committee,” and accepting a bribe would be in violation of federal law. I have shredded the check you enclosed with your application, and suggest, if you are unable to return the funds raised to the original donors, making a contribution to the Wounded Warriors project. I would be happy to put you in touch with one of their development coordinators.

Please notify WTYCFABLT Campaign members that our decision has been made, and they may cease 1., loitering menacingly in the parking lot near Landmarks Committee members’ cars (I am not above contacting Captain Rogers directly about this behavior if it continues, and neither of us want to deal with a disappointed Captain America); and 2., mailing cookies to our office. Although delicious, these packages have been causing consternation in the mail room, as we work in a historic building and fears of mice and other pests are a constant concern.

Please do let Ms. Lewis, WTYCFABLT Campaign Manager, know that her gingersnap crackles were a particular office favorite. We would be grateful if you forwarded the enclosed thank you card signed by our appreciative staff to her current address.

Sincerest regards,

Donald Knope

Landmarks Committee Chairman  
National Historic Landmarks Program  
1201 Eye St  
Washington, DC 20005

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did actual research for this, because why not take the opportunity to learn more about the bureaucracy behind historic landmarks?
> 
> Both National Historic Landmarks and the National Register of Historic Places are overseen by the National Parks Service, and there really is an [application process](https://www.nps.gov/nhl/apply/intro.htm) that anyone can submit to designate a property as a National Historic Landmark (although it does have to be a property, not a body part, no matter how historically significant that body part might be or how much bribe money you’ve raised). The two NHL requirements quoted in the fic are among the (much more numerous) real NHL requirements. The Landmarks Committee is real, but Donald Knope is real only in spirit.
> 
> More importantly, [Prospect Park](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prospect_Park_\(Brooklyn\)) really is on the National Register of Historic Places, and a [13-foot tall statue of Captain America](http://www.geek.com/news/captain-america-is-getting-a-13-foot-tall-bronze-statue-in-brooklyn-1660653/) really is heading there later this year, so yes, in an oblique and symbolic way, Steve Rogers’ Ass really is going to be officially recognized for its historical significance. 
> 
> Bucky Barnes would be so proud.


	4. Retail Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset comes in from the cold; Steve nests.
> 
> Original Tumblr post [here](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/148909978493/retail-therapy).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’m about two years too late with this, but I’m relatively new to this fandom and still catching up on the many superb post-CA:TWS Bucky recovery fics, so The Asset: World’s Most Confused Murder Kitten and Steve Rogers: World’s Most Stubborn Golden Retriever have been on my mind, and this little plot snippet wouldn’t leave me alone. I just needed to write something with Steve balancing between his FULL STEAM AHEAD FIX ALL THE PROBLEMS impulse and the need to meet Bucky where he is, and the Asset cautiously appreciating the results. Thus, 1,000 words of Steve sublimating his feelings into interior decorating was born.

The Asset stood very still after Rogers left the room. Rogers walked away, his footsteps hesitating at the end of the hallway before turning to the left, into the kitchen. Although he had said it was late and the Asset should go to sleep, Rogers wasn’t going to bed himself.

Perhaps he just wanted the Asset out of the way while he attended to other matters. The Asset had taken up a lot of his time today. Pierce had sometimes scolded the Asset for being so difficult to manage, for being a distraction from more important things.

Rogers had told the Asset to get some rest. There was a large bed in the room. Beds were for sleeping, the Asset knew, but the Asset didn’t want to sleep there. It was too exposed, too large, too soft. Easy to surveil and difficult to defend.

The Asset went into the bathroom. The bathroom door provided a flimsy but welcome barrier, and blocked out the hallway light visible around the edges of the bedroom door. Potential attackers would be at a disadvantage if the Asset’s eyes were already adjusted to complete darkness.

There was a bathtub large enough that the Asset only had to curl its knees a little to fold into it. It was dry and solid.

The smooth, curved sides of the bathtub reminded the Asset of the cryochamber. The cryochamber had brought numbness, and the closest thing to sleep the Asset was permitted to experience. The Asset didn’t mind going into the cryochamber so much. It was the chair that had always–

The Asset didn’t want to think about the chair.

The bathtub was cool, but not cold, and the Asset had always run warm. It was as safe as the Asset could be, in this place. The Asset slept.

 

“Is Bucky asleep?” Steve asked JARVIS.

“Yes, Captain. Sergeant Barnes is sleeping in the bathtub.”

Steve cursed under his breath and shoved the mugs he was carrying into the sink too hard, knocking a chip out of one handle. He put his hands on the counter edge and leaned back, head hanging down between his arms.

Of course Bucky wouldn’t sleep in a bed right now. Steve should have thought of that, should have made sure there was somewhere else he could sleep.

Although apparently Bucky had found a suitable spot on his own. That was encouraging, actually, as a sign of independent thought.

Three days after he got out of the hospital, Steve had opened his apartment door to find Bucky kneeling on his doormat, hands folded behind his head, an astonishing number of knives, guns, and other weapons lined up neatly five feet behind him. Bucky hadn’t made a sound, not when Steve had choked out his name, not when he had fallen to his knees and grabbed his shoulders just to make sure he was real, not when Steve had tugged him inside with shaking hands. Bucky had been passive and compliant the whole time Steve arranged for their immediate travel to New York, following every direction Steve had given him, but otherwise as unresponsive as a doll. He still hadn’t said a word without being directly prompted.

When his breathing was back under control, Steve pulled out his phone and texted Sam. _He’s sleeping in the bathtub._

Sam’s reply came fast, like he’d had his phone in his hand already. _I slept in the bathtub a few nights when I first got back. Felt safer. It’s good he’s sleeping at all_

 _I know._ Steve slid down to sit on the kitchen floor, one leg propped up against a cabinet. It was fine that Bucky was sleeping in the bathtub. In a cold, white tub in a cold, white room. It was fine, except that it made Steve want to burn down a building, or punch Hydra goons in the face until even his super-soldier stamina gave out.

But none of that would help Bucky. Steve took more deep breaths and picked up his phone again. _Will you help me go shopping?_

_??? Sure, where?_

_What’s that store with all the bathroom stuff?_

_Bed bath and beyond?_

_Yeah._

_You want to go now? Natasha says she can hang out in your apt in case he wakes up_

Sam was the _best_.

 

Sam rounded the aisle, saw Steve’s cart, and stopped short. “Is your goal here to get stuff for Bucky, or to buy out the store?”

Steve looked at the heap of pillows he had thrown into his cart. The pile was considerably taller than he was. “Too much?”

“Maybe a little,” Sam said dryly.

Steve sighed. “Yeah. It’s just–he deserves them. He deserves every good thing I can give him.”

“I know. But that’s not what he needs right now.”

Steve put all but one of the pillows back.

 

A full day had passed. The Asset had made many errors and received no corrections. The anticipation was more exhausting than punishment would have been, and by the time Rogers declared it was bedtime, the Asset was more than ready to sleep.

The Asset opened the bathroom door and immediately stopped, eyes flicking rapidly over the room. Many small things had changed since the night before. Nobody else had been in the apartment except Rogers and Sam, and Sam had stayed in the front room. Rogers must have made the changes.

There was a new shower curtain circling the tub, deep blue vinyl instead of translucent plastic. The curtain was printed with white and yellow flowers. It was. Pretty.

The Asset blinked and took a cautious step into the bathroom.

The thin bath mat had been replaced with a larger, plusher mat in the same deep blue as the new curtain. There was a nightlight with a plastic star-shaped cover plugged into the outlet, but not turned on. A small pillow rested against one edge of the bathtub, and the towel rack had a thick, fuzzy blanket hanging next to the hand towel.

These were things for sleeping. Rogers must have put them there for the Asset to use.

The Asset clicked the night light switch on and off a few times, watching the star glow and wink out. The star was yellow, closer to the star on Rogers’ shield than the red star on the Asset’s shoulder, but not quite matching either. That seemed significant in a way the Asset couldn’t define.

A blanket could hinder a quick exit–but not if it was under the Asset instead of on top. The Asset folded the blanket into a long rectangle and laid it on the bottom of the bathtub. Setting the pillow on one edge of the blanket was natural, correct. It felt good to use the things Rogers had provided.

The blanket was clean and warm and the pillow smelled like flowers.

The Asset left the nightlight off, but touched each point of the star before closing the bathroom door.

Surrounded by softness, the Asset slept.


	5. So What'd I Miss?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-election defrosting ficlet, because it’s either dark comedy or screaming into a pillow for the next four years. Original Tumblr post [here](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/153144284088/post-election-defrosting-ficlet-because-its).

“So what’d I miss?”

Bucky took a gulp from his mug of tea–they’d given him tea _and_ a blanket _and_ a tray of really incredible pastries, these Wakandian scientists really knew how to wake a guy up with style–and gave Steve an expectant look, missing the uneasy glances Sam and Scott exchanged behind his back.

“Miss?” Steve coughed into his fist. “Why, uh, why would you think you’d missed anything?”

Bucky stared. “…Because I’ve been in cryofreeze for nine months?”

“Oh, that!” Steve laughed nervously. “Well, uh, there’s a new season of iZombie on Netflix. The Cubs won the World Series, that was pretty exciting, lots of folks were happy about that. The summer Olympics happened, there’s this great swimmer named Katie Ledecky–”

“Donald Trump is President of the United States,” Scott interrupted. Steve rounded on him, but Scott just gave him an unrepentant shrug.

“What?” Bucky said.

“Scott!” Steve hissed.

“Just rip the band-aid off, Steve. Donald Trump is the President. It happened, and ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

“I was gonna get to it, I was, I just wanted to–” Steve waved his hands around vaguely. “Build up to it.”

“What?” Bucky repeated. “Trump? The reality show guy?”

“Yeah, I’m with Scott,” Sam sighed. “There’s no softening this blow.”

“The guy with the hair?” Bucky was still 80% sure he just hadn’t heard correctly. “The orange one?”

“Yes, that one.”

“The one who–”

“The sociopathic circus peanut whose most visible policy proposal was building a wall with Mexico, yeah.” Sam shrugged. “Like I said, there’s no softening it.”

“Is this a prank?”

The sympathy in Sam’s eyes was damning. “I fucking wish, man.”

“Please don’t go back into cryo,” Steve said.

Bucky set the mug of tea down and stared at his hands. “Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I’m going to need about five hundred more pastries.”

“Right away, Buck.”


	6. You've Got Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to [this Tumblr prompt](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/155001330653/echocharliefoxtrot-bucky-and-steve-live-in-the) from echocharliefoxtrot: _Bucky and Steve live in the same apartment building and keep getting each other’s mail_
> 
> I took the opportunity to do a little Shrinkyclinks/friends-as-matchmakers. Romcom premise, slapstick execution.

Clint crept up the stairs to the fourth floor, reaching into his messenger bag to pull out a stack of envelopes. Dawn was just breaking outside. The light from the hallway window wasn’t bright enough for Clint to read the apartment numbers, but he knew where he was going by now. He dropped the stack of envelopes onto the doormat for apartment 401.

Clint had a moment to feel the warm glow of satisfaction from a job well done before the apartment door slammed open and a guy built like a tank--a long-haired, one-armed, super muscle-y tank--charged out.

“You the mail carrier?”

“That’s me,” Clint said. “Uh, how can I help you?”

“This is apartment 401.”

Clint blinked. “Congratulations?”

The big guy gave him a look. “You keep leaving me mail for 302.”

“Huh,” Clint said blandly. “My mistake, sorry.”

“That’s what he told me,” a new voice piped up. A familiar blond head poked out of the door and gave Clint an epic stink-eye. “And then he asked for a glass of water, and ran before I got back with it.”

“Oh, really?” The big guy bristled like a bear and backed Clint up against the opposite wall, pinning him there with a hand on his chest.

“Woah, hey there.” Clint squirmed against the man’s grip, which got him absolutely nowhere. Dude was _built_. “What, you think I was giving you the wrong mail on purpose? I don’t see so well in the morning, it’s dark, I need new glasses--”

“Yeah, I do think that.” The blond man came out into the hallway and tried to loom over Clint intimidatingly. His eyes only came up to Clint’s chest, but it was surprisingly effective.

“Okay, okay, okay. I was doing it on purpose, but I wasn’t just being a dick, I swear!” Clint turned imploring eyes on the big guy. “You know Natasha Romanoff, right?”

The big guy’s grip loosened. “How do you know Natasha?”

“I’m sort of her boyfriend. Or maybe we’re just dating? I don’t know, she doesn’t like labels, but she _does_ like matchmaking, and--”

“Oh, fuck.” The big guy let go of Clint, freeing up his hand to facepalm into it. “She set us up.”

“She and Sam Wilson both set you up,” Clint agreed. “They work together, and somehow they got to talking and realized that both of them had a tragically single friend living in this building, and wouldn’t it be great if their tragically single friends met? Like if they were getting each other’s mail?”

“Unbelievable.” The blond guy paused and crossed his arms. The NASA t-shirt he was wearing was so big on him that the sleeves came down to his elbows. “Actually, no, I can believe it. That sounds exactly like something Sam would think was hilarious.”

The big guy groaned into his palm. “I should have known Natasha was up to something the moment she stopped trying to set me up with every dude into dudes in the borough.”

Before asking his next question, Clint wisely edged to the top of the stairs so he could make a quick exit if needed. “So, not to be nosy or anything, but given that it’s 5:00am and you’re both in the same apartment and he’s wearing one of your shirts--did it work?”

The two men gave him matching glares, but the blond one started blushing and the big one rested his hand on the blond guy’s shoulder, so Clint figured that was his answer right there.

“Are you even a real mailman?” the blond guy asked.

“Haha, what? Of course I am, impersonating a mailman is, like, a felony or something.” Clint took a nervous step back.

Unfortunately, he remembered a split second too late that he had already been standing at the top of a staircase.

Fortunately, Clint was pretty good at falling down stairs without really hurting himself. He had, after all, had a _lot_ of practice.


	7. The Captain's Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to [this Tumblr prompt](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/166146622953/for-the-send-a-number-fic-thing-buckysteve-with): _For the send a number fic thing: Bucky/Steve with number 1: soulmates AU. Please? :)_

He moves through the museum slowly, keeping pace with tourists and school groups, head down and face hidden under the baseball cap he stole from a sidewalk stall three blocks away. His left arm is hidden under long sleeves, hand tucked into his pocket. There is no name on his wrist. The metal plates are smooth and bare. Assets do not have soulmates.

The Captain is everywhere. His face, fixed in a wide grin in vividly colored posters, solemn and tired in black and white footage, is on every wall. When he turns away, the Captain’s head seems to turn in the edge of his vision. He feels the Captain’s eyes on the back of his neck.

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re my friend. You–_

On the helicarrier, the Captain had peeled back the sleeve of his battered uniform to reveal the words on his left wrist. The handwriting had been neat cursive, _James Buchanan Barnes_ still crisp and clear, seventy years after the name should have blurred into illegibility after Sergeant Barnes’ death.

Sergeant Barnes is on the walls, too. Not as often as the Captain, not centered in the photographs, but he looks out just the same. There is a clip of Sergeant Barnes and the Captain laughing, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, that he watches over and over until the pressure of standing still becomes too much, and he must drift with the crowd.

Sergeant Barnes had a left arm of flesh and bone. Sergeant Barnes had a name on his wrist.

One of the final exhibition cases in the museum contains a display of two photographs: two wrists, the skin washed out to white, the names in solid black. _James Buchanan Barnes_. And next to the Captain’s wrist, the Sergeant’s, with another name. _Steven Grant Rogers_.

He looks at the names, his own reflection hanging in the glass above the photos. His face is mirrored on the walls around him, Sergeant Barnes looking back at him. He balls his left hand in his pocket so he won’t take it out to double check, won’t trace over his blank metal wrist looking for words that aren’t there. Assets do not have soulmates.

When he leaves the museum, he takes one of the discarded name tags a visitor has left on the floor. He picks up a pen off the sidewalk and puts it in his pocket. He doesn’t take his left hand out of his pocket. He keeps walking.

Later that night, in the privacy of his squat house, he takes the pen and carefully, with a hand that only shakes a little, writes _Steven Grant Rogers_ across the name tag. He folds the edges back so the tag is slightly smaller than one of the broad plates of his wrist, so the paper will not catch and tear as the plates shift with his movement.

He peels off the plastic backing and smooths the tag over his wrist, tracing the letters again and again, _Steven Grant Rogers_ , as he lies in the dark and waits for sleep to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more of this now! Read [part 2 here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7369123/chapters/28007574).


	8. Romanian Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to [this Tumblr prompt](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/166156764273/high-school-popular-kidnerd-au-i-am-such-a?is_related_post=1): _high school popular kid/nerd au I AM SUCH A SUCKER FOR THISSSS Also thank you for sharing your fantastic writing! I honestly don't know how you find the time and creativity for it and I am just so impressed. Much love ❤️_
> 
> Here’s a popular Steve, for once, with nerdy Bucky. This got away from me a little and grew a tiny bit of backstory/plot. Content warning for homophobia and a character being outed without consent in the past.

“Is this the Romanian language club?”

Bucky startled so hard his elbow slipped off the desk. He’d been half asleep already, his chemistry notes open in front of him, more because they would make a decent pillow than because he was actually studying. He hadn’t expected anyone else to walk in. Nobody _ever_ came to Romanian club.

It wasn’t much of a club, since Bucky was the founder and only member, but he’d needed something to put on his college applications under extracurriculars, and he couldn’t bring himself to sign up for any actual activities that might involve talking to people. Nobody at Shield High even knew his full name, and after the shitshow that had been his last school, Bucky was planning on keeping it that way.

“Uh, yes,” Bucky said belatedly. He recognized the boy standing in the doorway, but he couldn’t quite believe his eyes, because what was _Steve Rogers_ doing here?

Steve Rogers was a Shield High legend. If all the rumors were true, he had spent his early years fighting all comers and winning more than should have been possible for someone as short and skinny as he was. The art geeks loved him, both because he was crazy talented and because he’d fought off every bully who tried to make their lives hell. He had become the school folk hero after manipulating the biggest asshole jock in the school, Brock Rumlow, into calling him a gay slur and punching him on camera, resulting in his expulsion, to the delight of half the student body. 

Bucky only spent _most_ of his lunch periods sneaking furtive glances at Steve Rogers. He wasn’t brave enough to actually talk to him--not after what had happened at his last school--but looking was okay, so long as nobody noticed. And Steve was _fascinating_. Sometimes he spent lunch arguing with someone, sharp elbows flying out wildly as he made vehement points, and sometimes he spent the whole period drawing on the back of his brown paper lunch bag. Bucky tried to throw his lunch away right after Steve did on those days, so he could sneak a look at the drawings.

Bucky hadn’t fished any of them out of the trash, no matter how tempting it was sometimes. He had _some_ limits.

“Cool.” Steve swung his backpack off his shoulder and gave Bucky a disarming smile. “I’m Steve Rogers. You’re Bucky, right?”

“I know,” Bucky blurted, like a _moron_. “And yeah, uh, that’s me. Bucky. Barnes. Bucky Barnes, at your service.” Why was he _still talking_.

“Cool,” Steve said again. He was still _smiling_ , and looking at his face was making Bucky break out in goosebumps. How? How was he so cute? He was wearing khakis and a flannel shirt and _penny loafers_ (although the shirt was rolled up to show off lean forearms dusted with golden hair, which was frankly unfair). How was he making grandpa clothes so _attractive_? Why did his grin make Bucky feel like he was standing too close to an electric fence? “So, Romanian club.”

Bucky swallowed hard and ruthlessly quashed whatever unspoken hopes he’d once had of Steve ever thinking he was even a tiny bit not pathetic. He’d learned early on that it was easiest to rip humiliation band-aids off quick. “It’s not really a club. I mean, it’s just me. I needed something for my college applications.” _I don’t have any friends who would join my shitty club_ , went without saying.

Steve just nodded, as though he didn’t realize Bucky had just signed, sealed, and delivered his own coolness death warrant. “Yeah, that makes sense. Can I join anyway?”

“What?”

“Can I join?”

“You want to learn Romanian?”

Steve shrugged. For the first time since he entered the room, he looked a little awkward, cheeks pinkening. “I mean. Yeah. Romanian seems interesting.”

Bucky’s heart sank. Steve was a terrible liar. He was probably just being nice, taking pity on the weird foreign kid who never talked to anyone. “You don’t have to--it’s okay.”

A little line formed between Steve’s eyebrows. “What’s okay?”

“You don’t have to pretend to want to be here. I can get by on my own.” Bucky looked down at his chemistry homework, making a few notations on an equation without really looking at what he was writing.

Steve put his hands over his face and groaned. He dropped them a second later, his face much redder than it had been before, but he leaned forward and looked at Bucky earnestly. “I’m messing this up. Bucky, I’ve been trying to figure out how to strike up a conversation with you for months. I don’t really care about learning Romanian. I just wanted to talk to you, but you’re kind of intimidating and I never found the right time.”

“Intimidating?” Bucky said blankly.

“Yeah, you kind of--you never look like you want anyone to approach you. Which is fine,” Steve said quickly, “if you want me to go away and stop bothering you, I’ll do that.”

Bucky had no idea what his face was doing, but something in his expression made Steve’s face fall.

“Sorry,” Steve said quietly, already picking up his backpack. 

Without thinking, Bucky reached out and caught the other backpack strap. “I don’t want you to go away,” he said. 

“Okay,” Steve said, and sat back down.

Bucky hesitated, then took the plunge. Everyone knew what Rumlow had called Steve and why, and Steve had never pretended to be straight. He wouldn’t freak out about this. Bucky was pretty sure, and if he was wrong, he didn’t have much to lose anyway. “At my last school, I had one friend. I was the weird foreign kid who brought funny food for lunch, so I made friends with this other weird foreign kid, Armin. I talked to him every day for two years. And then he told the whole school I was gay.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Steve hissed. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Bucky. He had no right to do that, that’s a super fucked-up thing to do.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath. “It got--bad. That’s why I switched schools. I’m kind of messed up from that, and I have a hard time talking to people. But I don’t want you to go away.”

“Okay.” Steve’s whole body relaxed in his chair. He scooted his desk a little closer to Bucky. That electric grin was back on his face, and Bucky found himself smiling in response. “So, Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“Teach me some Romanian?”

When they left an hour later, Steve had a notebook page filled with the Romanian alphabet, Bucky had a drawing Steve had done of a robot blasting into space, and they each had each other’s cell numbers.


	9. The Captain's Name part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several people requested more of [this Soulmate AU ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7369123/chapters/27966132), so here's a Steve POV scene that gets them to a more hopeful place.

By the time Steve finally got back to his wrecked apartment (first he had to convince the hospital that he really was the medical marvel he had claimed to be, and no he didn’t need follow-up surgeries, and yes he could shrug off bullet wounds and incipient pneumonia with enough food and sleep, and yes, fine, he would sit in the damn wheelchair on his way out the door if they would just _let him leave_ ), the building had already been cleared by the D.C. metro police. His neighbors had all cleared out--half of them had been SHIELD anyway, and the rest didn’t want to live somewhere the entire world now knew had housed Captain America and been shot up by the Winter Soldier. Police had cordoned off the building and moved on to more urgent cleanup sites.

Steve ducked under the yellow caution tape and climbed the stairs to his apartment. It was uncannily quiet without anyone else in the building. He’d never walked down his hallway without hearing kids yelling, or the sounds of someone cooking, or at least a TV playing somewhere. 

Someone had locked his apartment door. Sharon, maybe, or one of the SHIELD techs called in after Fury’s shooting, locking up on their way out. Steve fished his keys out of his coat pocket, opened the door, and came to a dead stop.

Bucky was sitting on one of the remaining intact chairs, elbows propped on his knees, hands folded in front of him and conspicuously empty. He didn’t look up at the sound of the door opening.

Steve’s mind stuttered through an abrupt gear change, plans and priorities rearranging. He closed the door behind him and slowly hung up his coat. “Hey, Buck. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Two days.” Bucky still hadn’t looked up. His fingers were twisted together, his right hand bare, his left covered in a glove. Behind the glove, the standard black fabric of a generic soulmark cuff peeped out from under his sleeve. 

The Winter Soldier hadn’t covered his left arm at all; there hadn’t been a name or any kind of special markings on the plates of his wrist. Maybe Bucky was wearing the cuff now to blend in with civilians, as camouflage like the glove. Seeing it there still gave Steve a jolt of something electric. It felt like Bucky was still wearing it to shelter Steve’s name. Keeping it close, keeping it safe. 

Steve touched the skin of his own left wrist in unconscious reassurance. He’d kept his soulmark defiantly bare ever since the bridge fight as an open declaration of his priorities, a reminder for his allies and a warning to his enemies. “You hungry?”

“I ate your yogurt.”

“That’s not a no.” Steve forced himself to turn his back on Bucky to rifle through his kitchen cabinets. He didn’t think Bucky would attack him, but he was having a hard time believing he was really there, that he wouldn’t vanish the moment Steve blinked. He half expected Bucky to be gone when he turned around.

Bucky wasn’t gone. Bucky was watching him, gaze fixed on the _James Buchanan Barnes_ written on Steve’s skin.

“That’s you.” Steve stepped closer, a package of crackers in his right hand, his left palm turned up. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to Steve’s face, then back down to his own shoes. He took the crackers Steve handed him but didn’t open the box.

“Your soulmate,” Bucky said. 

“Yeah, you’re my soulmate. I know you have no reason to trust me,” Steve added quickly. “It’s okay if you don’t believe me. I’m not trying to pressure you, I just want--” _I just want to help you. I just want you safe. I just want you to know me, or be willing to get to know me again. I just don’t want you to leave. I just don’t want to be alone again._ Steve didn’t know what was safe to say, what might spook Bucky into running, so he didn’t say any of it.

Bucky didn’t look like he was planning on running. He regarded Steve, brow furrowing as he thought something over, then pushed his sleeve up. He undid the soulmark cuff and turned his wrist so Steve could see it.

A grubby, dog-eared rectangle of paper was stuck to one of the wrist plates, _Steven Grant Rogers_ written across it in unsteady letters. Steve fell to his knees on the floor in front of Bucky, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him. He reached out and Bucky leaned forward to meet him halfway. 

They both held their breath when Steve traced his fingers over his own name, right there on Bucky’s wrist where it was supposed to be. They’d taken Bucky’s arm, taken Steve’s name, and Bucky had put it _back_. Steve was overwhelmed with the fierceness of his love for this man.

“My soulmate,” Bucky said, a little too uncertain to be a declaration.

“ _Yes_. Bucky, yes, I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

Bucky slid off the chair to kneel level with Steve. He wrapped his right hand around Steve’s mark, fingers closing firmly over his own name. They held each other fast like two men in the heart of a storm, like letting go would mean drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Later on, Steve uses a ceramic fountain pen to etch his name in acid on Bucky’s wrist plate, because who gives a shit that his wrist is metal now, that’s where Steve’s name belongs and they will Make It Work.)


End file.
